


Digestif

by anomieow



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: BDSM, D/s, Deepthroating, Facial, Hand-feeding, M/M, Modern AU, Oral Sex, Puppy Play, Slapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:03:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27637930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomieow/pseuds/anomieow
Summary: “You mustn’t encourage him, Alexander.” An expression of faint disdain crosses Stephen’s face as he glances sidewise down at the pup.  “He’s incorrigible enough as is.”Alexander’s eyes crinkle in a fond, small smile as he strokes the pup’s cheek. “Is that true?” He asks. “Are you incorrigible?”The pup, Harry, puts on his most earnest face and leans against Alexander’s knee. He’s a lithe little thing, eyes a dark, coppery green beneath a cap of dark, untidy curls. His mouth quietly voluptuous. Alexander rests his hand in Harry’s hair and smiles gently. “No,” he says, speaking to Stephen but gazing at Harry, who keeps his eyes downcast, “he’s a good boy.”Stephen rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his chenin blanc.
Relationships: Harry D.S. Goodsir/Stephen S. Stanley/Alexander McDonald
Comments: 15
Kudos: 40
Collections: Bad Medicine: The Terror Doctors





	Digestif

“You mustn’t encourage him, Alexander.” An expression of faint disdain crosses Stephen’s face as he glances sidewise down at the pup. “He’s incorrigible enough as is.” 

Alexander’s eyes crinkle in a fond, small smile as he strokes the pup’s cheek. “Is that true?” He asks. “Are you incorrigible?” 

The pup, Harry, puts on his most earnest face and leans against Alexander’s knee. He’s a lithe little thing, eyes a coppery green beneath a cap of dark, untidy curls. His mouth quietly voluptuous. Alexander rests his hand in Harry’s hair and smiles gently. “No,” he says, speaking to Stephen but gazing at Harry, who keeps his eyes downcast, “he’s a good boy.” 

Stephen rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his chenin blanc. Alexander really is soft on him, especially when one considers what level of pain and humiliation he will joyfully bear: it’s a waste, really. Stephen’s leg shoots out, the toe of his gleaming black oxfords connecting squarely with Harry’s ribs. “Get,” he snarls. Harry’s breath catches in a soft whimper but he only moves just beyond the reach of those long, muscular legs. Alexander’s brow lifts but he otherwise ignores this, which feels more like a display of spite than dominance. Instead he plucks a wedge of pomelo from his salad, and lowers it to Harry’s mouth. 

“Go on,” he says.

“Oh, you’re slipping him scraps now? How very civilized.” 

“Would you rather he share the table with us?” Then to Harry, “take it. You must be hungry.”

Delicately he takes the fruit in his teeth, closing the press of his lips around Alexander’s fingertips for the barest flick of a moment. It’s a gesture that might pass as incidental were it not for the way his gaze flashes hotly up from beneath thick lashes to meet Alexander’s. Then he crawls round to kneel once again between his legs. Stephen lays his fork down with a clatter; his mouth is tight. Alexander smirks then, catching Stephen’s eye as he fishes an especially delectable scrap of meat out of the roast duck and papaya salad Stephen has prepared. It’s tender and lukewarm in his fingers. Golden pink. He lowers it to Harry’s mouth. This time he is rewarded by a quick dance of the younger man’s tongue across his fingers before nuzzling his head against Alexander’s inner thigh with a whine. This time he maintains eye contact as he breathes out a warm, open-mouthed kiss against the tender flesh there. Nips lightly. Alexander’s eyes sink shut for a moment and he allows his fingers to return to Harry’s soft curls, fingering them between thumb and forefinger. Then he tightens his grip and wrenches him back, forcing him back onto his kneels and the balls of his feet. 

“That’s enough, Pet,” he says softly. 

There is a dangerous pause in which it seems Stephen might say something ugly. But he only sighs, lowers his gaze, and takes another sip of his wine. 

Soon the two men are talking about a play they’ve seen recently. Stephen tries to ignore Alexander feeding choice bits to Harry, who is increasingly bold with his mouth each time he takes a morsel from his fingers. When he sucks the scant trace of papaya nectar from each of Alexander’s long fingers in turn, laving all the way down to the webbing between—admittedly, Alexander is positively lovely in these little moments of pleasure, a lambency moving lightly across his features—Stephen decides he has had enough. 

He addresses Alexander over the top of Harry’s head. “He seems to need something more substantive than table scraps.” Then, before Alexander can answer, Stephen’s unzipped his fly and worked his prick free. “Mutt,” he says. “Here.”

Harry feasts. With impatient grace, Stephen permits him to move his mouth up and down the slow thickening of his cock but he can’t bear his fumbling for long. ( _He always makes such a great show of being dissatisfied with Harry’s mouth,_ Alexander reflects with a funny kind of pride, _yet he certainly spends enough time with it._ ) Soon Stephen is humping Harry’s open mouth. “Have to do everything myself,” he mutters savagely. “It’s not difficult to suck cock even adequately, and yet here we are. If I’m to glean _any_ pleasure from this—“ he catches his breath, giving himself away—“I suppose I must just treat you like the hole you are.” He levers Harry back by his hair, his mouth fallen open, tongue out, eyes dark and glittering and pleading. _More. Put it back, use me._

Abruptly he slaps him. Once, and then again. “ _Oh,”_ Harry breathes, and tilts his face up in invitation: _Another._

“Look at that,” Stephen says, his voice chill. “Nasty, filthy little creature. Look how hard he is.” It’s true—Harry’s prick is a thick arc in his ecru linen slacks, capped by a dark little smudge of precum. (He wears nothing beneath them: accessibility.) “But he can’t help it, can he, Alexander?” He briefly fondles his cheek before rearing back for another brutal slap. “A born slut.” 

“Now, don’t damage the poor thing,” Alexander scolds lightly. “Not where anyone can see.” Not that Stephen needs reminding: he is perhaps the most careful of the three to avoid allowing their collective private life to bleed into their separate public ones. However, Stephen does bring the clinical precision of his occupation as a surgeon to his treatment of Harry, beneath whose tight black tee shirt, partially obscured by a y-shaped expanse of dark hair, lies a constellation of bruises and welts. And he knows exactly how hard and how many times he can strike Harry before bruising or swelling. But now he sends one last backhand across Harry’s mouth. “Swell those lips up,” he snarls lightly. “Make a nice little cushion for my cock. Now, open up. Finish what you started.” 

He steers him two-handed by his hair down into his lap until he gags and he holds him there, wretching and straining against the press of his large hands until he’s satisfied. (He can always strike Stephen’s thigh with the heel of his hand if it’s too much; it never is.) Then he shoves him down further til his heavy cock is fully sheathed, Harry’s nose smashed into the fair, dense curls at its base. He whimpers, inhales. An animal joy—snuffing, eager. Specifically, a dog’s joy. _See how good I am._ Stephen slides one large hand down to cup Harry’s throat, strokes the rounded bulge of his own glans in Harry’s throat.

Then he begins moving in and out, anchored against his own broad, immovable grip on Harry’s head. Quicker, harder. Huffing through his nostrils. He is never particularly demonstrative of his pleasure but Alexander can tell by an incremental softening of the line of his mouth that he is enjoying himself. Harry’s gaze is wide and soft—a most docile pup, now that he’s been given what he wants. “Dirty little slut,” Stephen is saying, “just try not to come in your pants like you do sometimes.” He lowers his mouth a little and drives Harry’s mouth hilt-deep onto his cock again. “Make you sleep outside if you do, move your crate out onto the balcony and take your blanket away. Leave you in those disgusting pants.” 

“He can’t help it,” Alexander says a little breathlessly. There’s something about watching the tall, fair Stephen with his angular face ride the supple mouth of their slender little pet that always revs his blood; it’s a funny mixed-up kind of excitement that envies them both. “He so loves to please.”

“Mmm,” Stephen says, the flare of his nostrils and the lift of his brow warning that he’s getting close. “That’s fortunate. Not worth much else, is he?” He pulls Harry’s head back and begins to work himself with one hand. Tense, frantic little jerks. “Useless,” he snarls, his voice thin and hard. “Worthless, filth, fuckhole—ah—“ and he lets go. Harry’s eyes flutter shut and his face is slack with held-breath pleasure as he tilts his face up like a heliotrope seeking the sun. The first jet of come lands across his brow, the second the bridge of his nose. He licks a third spatter of it from his cheek before leaning in to affectionately clean the last of it from Stephen’s fingers as they work the last droplets out from the slit in the head of his cock. This too he mouths gently but impeccably clean before sitting back on his knees and the ball of his feet. Stephen nods once, his face impassive, and, after putting himself away, returns to his salad.

Alexander pats his thigh and Harry crawls over to him. 

“Are you still hungry?” He asks in a light, teasing way.

Harry nods, the pale blaze of the recessed dining room lights illuminating the wobbly hatch work of jism already his face. 

“Would you like—a slice of pomelo?”

He shakes his head.

“A bit of cucumber? Duck? This bit has dressing on it, a sort of lime vinaigrette—delectable, Stephen, by the way.” (Stephen grunts in acknowledgment. He’s taken out his phone and is idly scrolling through, no doubt, the day’s breaking news stories.) 

Again, no.

“I’d no idea you were such a picky eater. What would you like, then?”

Harry’s gaze rests on the half-hard bulge in Alexander’s khakis before glancing up pleadingly, a soft whine in his throat. 

“Ah, I see.” He chuckles indulgently. “You _are_ a slutty little pup, aren’t you?” Alexander likes to feed his prick into Harry’s open mouth, to luxuriate in the warmth radiating from his tongue and the velvety walls of his cheeks; tonight he loves as well the as well the sight of those subtly swollen lips, smacked and ground hard over the ridge of his teeth. “You’re such a pretty little thing,” he says softly, and it’s true—from the flush of his cheeks to the color of his eyes, a hybrid of gold and green and like some unearthed and as-of-yet unnamed mineral, he’s a lovely creature. There is a shy, shining joy in his eyes as he closes his mouth around Alexander and his lips curve into a quiet smile. 

Alexander is gentler than Stephen, more patient. He likes to give his pet a chance to prove himself and appreciates how he labors at it, driving himself all the way down to the root and easing off again, ringing the base with thumb and forefinger as he glides lips and cupped tongue along his length. Alexander would rather have him bent over the glass-top table, for where he really excels is getting fucked, his entire small, strong, lissome body attuned and and exquisitely responsive. A noisy, wiggly thing, half-feral beneath him. Ah, but this is good. More than good, it’s lovely, how he tightens his throat lightly around him as he sucks at the base with his lips. A shivery little trace of teeth. “I believe he’s getting better,” Alexander manages shakily. 

“I very much doubt it,” Stephen says, “but I suppose your standards are less rigorous than mine.” He does set down his phone to watch, his face impassive. Then after a moment he rises and goes to stand astride of Harry, his legs against his shoulders. He plunges his long fingers into his curls and begins to control the rhythm and thrust of his ministrations. Alexander is about to object but then Harry gives a startled moan as Stephen shoves his mouth flush against Alexander’s pubic bone—moans and gags, and reaches unconsciously toward his own painfully full erection. Stephen, who misses nothing, gives his arm a good kick and wrenches his head back. Slaps him. 

“Oh, pet,” Alexander scolds. “You know better.” 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry says, mortified. “I really didn’t mean to. I just—“

“Shall we bind his wrists? I think we should bind his wrists,” Stephen interrupts, unable to disguise a lilt of hope in his tone. 

“We’re not binding his wrists. He’ll be good.” He rests his crooked finger beneath Harry’s chin and lifts his face so he can’t but look him in the eye. Alexander’s gaze is searching, his expression grave. “You _will_ be good, won’t you?” Harry nods, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Alexander smiles as big then as the sun and leans back, prick in hand. “What are you waiting for, then?” He teases.

“Permission,” he replies earnestly, his gaze flicking between Alexander and Stephen. 

“Permission to do what, pet?”

“To suck your cock, sir. Please.” There’s a quivering breathlessness to his voice, and worry too. As though Alexander would ever refuse his pup anything. He nods—and the plush, cupped heat of that voluptuous mouth is on him again instantly, tongue cupping his under-ridge as he works his lips down again to the very base. Whether it was the pause in stimulation or his eagerness—just the weight of Alexander on his tongue pulls a high whine from his throat—he can’t say, but Alexander is at the precipice already. He lets his head fall back and is startled by Stephen’s mouth on his, sucking his tongue against the scrape of his teeth and jimmying the sure, strong width of his hand down his open collar to clutch roughly at his chest. 

Harry watches with wide, awed eyes. Alexander, in all his delicious overwhelm, manages to remember to stroke his curls as he comes, bucking his hips hard against Harry’s mouth and crying out into Stephen’s mouth. He feels at once taken apart and suspended between, swelling and cresting, his spine and thighs singing with the bliss of it. As it recedes it leaves heavy calm in its wake.

“Look,” Stephen is saying as Alexander returns to himself. “Look what this filthy beast did.” He points at Harry huddled over himself, downcast, trying to hide the wide smear of come on the placket of his linen slacks.

“I’m so sorry,” he says quietly. “It just happened, I’m so sorry.”

Stephen points at the crate in the corner of the living room.

“No,” Alexander says firmly. “Not tonight.”

Stephen tilts his head inquiringly but says nothing.

“Like you said,” he continues with a pleasant smile. “A born slut. He couldn’t help it.”

Stephen considers this a moment, rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “But he ought to be disciplined somehow.”

Alexander regards Harry thoughtfully. “Let him sit in it,” he says at last. “What do you think, pet? Let it dry, cool? You’ll have to stay off the furniture, naturally. But perhaps later, if you’re good, we can get you cleaned up. Wash your face, too.” Harry nods, swallows thickly: the last time Stephen had helped _clean him up_ he’d wound up with his head underwater as he was fucked with precise, rhythmic brutality. Yanked up just often enough to drag in one searing, abrupted breath before being plunged under again. 

“You’re as ruthless as a rose petal,” Stephen mutters now, but something akin to a smile briefly plays across his heavy features—pale eyes, hard, high cheekbones, mouth like a slash of wire beneath a deep Cupid’s bow. He extends his hand and helps Harry up before carrying the dishes into the kitchen.


End file.
